She had no idea.
Let me inside,
she had pleaded during one of their last real fights.
Don’t keep shutting me out. I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.
Now, she glanced around the cold, bare entryway, noting where squares of darker wood on the walls suggested pictures long gone. If this was the inside of Dale, she might be better off back in Boston. At least there, she understood the rules.
Here, she understood nothing.
WHEN HE FINALLY HEARD the shower thump to life, Dale pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the kitchen window and closed his eyes. If she had followed him and demanded answers, he wasn’t sure what would have come out of his mouth.
There is no
“us” anymore.
It was the truth. It
had
to be the truth. Everything that had happened between them was based on a lie.
He wasn’t the son of a wealthy Boston shipper. His family’s single boat had gone down one night amidst a ferocious spring storm. Or so he’d been told. Nobody, not even the uncle who’d lost his wife in the accident, had wanted to hear Dale’s suspicions. The day a drunken Trask had tried to beat the questions out of him was the day seventeen-year-old Dale had fled the island with Walter Churchill’s help.
Make yourself into someone else,
Churchill had demanded, and sent him off with enough money to do it.
You’re better than Lobster Island. You don’t be long here.
But he’d never felt like he belonged where he’d ended up, either. Boston, and the wealthy doctor’s life, hadn’t sat easily on his shoulders. He’d worked hard to make it fit, even harder when Tansy had come into his life, but the more he tried, the worse the role had pinched.
The shower rumbled overhead, shifting his attention. When he was a child, the noise had made him think of monsters. Now it made him think of Tansy,
naked, slick and pink beneath the water. Suddenly, his clothes were more irritating than cold, sticking to the sensitive places. Dale pulled off his ruined shirt and winced as his bumps and bruises throbbed. His quick arousal faded with the memory of those last moments on the runway.
They could have died in the plane crash. They could have sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Dead. Like his parents. And it would have been his fault for bringing Tansy along.
The pipes rattled again, making him think of the shower again. Of Tansy. Without trying, he could imagine steam wreathing her soft, rosy body. Briefly, he let himself remember their time together, let the memory beat back the shadows and the ghosts. The fear.
They had first made love on a pallet in Tehru, barely taking the time to loosen the clothing they wore to bed, to be ready for the next emergency. They had come together in need and despair, wanting to forget the dead and the dying at a time when the outbreak had seemed unbeatable. Then, they’d wanted to feel alive. Later, they’d just wanted to feel. After that first time, they’d stolen moments for quick, furtive couplings when they were too tired to save lives but too wired to sleep.
With the outbreak’s source discovered and the disease leveled, they’d headed home, stopping halfway to rent a room with lush plants, marble, brass and silk. And a shower… God, what a shower.
They’d made love in that shower, naked together
for the first time, as perfect for each other as two people could possibly be.
Except that she was perfect for the man Dale had created—wealthy and pedigreed. And that man was nothing more than fiction. If Tansy ever met the real Dale Metcalf, she’d be horrified.
Worse, she’d be disappointed.
And maybe that was why he hadn’t fought harder against bringing her. Maybe Lobster Island would do what he had failed to do. Maybe it would kill the attraction between them. Kill the want, and the desperate kick of his heart every time he saw her.
He stepped out of his ruined shoes and eyed the pile of clothes Mickey’s wife had left beside a flashlight and a small box of staples. He scowled at the worn jeans and the rough Irish-knit sweater. Dr. Metcalf, infectious disease specialist, didn’t own jeans or bulky sweaters. But he’d grown up in them. Shrugging, he scooped the warm clothes off the floor near the stairs and set his foot on the lowest tread.
With the motion, his blood buzzed, and emotions, those things he so often avoided, threatened to swamp him. He’d never needed Tansy’s quiet strength more than he did right now. And he had no right to it.
Did he dare go up? If he paused outside the bathroom door and heard her singing in the low contralto that never failed to set his body afire, would he have the strength to keep walking?
Dr. Metcalf would have the strength to walk by,
just as he’d had the nobility to push her away. But Dale Metcalf, lobsterman’s brat, knew nothing of nobility. He knew nothing of honor or civility, but he knew about desire. About the want that had chased through his veins ever since he’d held Tansy in his lap on the drive over and remembered how she smelled. How she tasted.
How she felt wrapped around him. Needing him. Loving him.
Oh, yes. He knew about those things. And the memory burned in his lungs. Fighting for strength, for sanity, he turned away from temptation.
And heard Tansy scream.
Chapter Three
“Dale! Dale, get up here!
Hurry!
” The terror in her voice kicked him up the stairs at a dead run. He’d never heard Tansy scream before. Ever.
Moving fast, he shouldered open the door and slid to a halt at the sight of her perfect, round derriere. She was leaning out the bathroom window, dripping on the floor.
“Tans?” He plunged into the small, steamy room, slapped the shower off and heard rustling thumps down below.
There was someone outside.
“Dale!” She turned, clutching a towel to her chest. “There was a man looking in the window. He was
watching me!
What the hell is going on here?”
The tree.
“Damn it!” He brushed her aside and threw a leg out the window. It had been fifteen years since the last time he’d snuck away from Trask and broken into his old house, but the tree still stood outside the bathroom window. And the sounds of running foot
steps below told him it was still strong enough for climbing.
“Omigod, what are you doing?” Her voice bordered on shrill, but he didn’t pause.
He grabbed the gutter and swung a leg over to the thickest limb. The motions came back easily, and within seconds he was halfway down the tree. A shadow of movement from the garden gate caught his eye. “Stay put,” he yelled to her. “I’ll be right back.” He dropped to the ground and sprinted for the lane that ran behind his mother’s overgrown garden.
There were two sets of footsteps and a frantic shout of, “Hurry! Jeez, here he comes!” from the running shadows.
Dale chose the one on the left and made a leaping tackle. He and his quarry went down in the lane amidst a flurry of arms and legs. A pointy elbow cracked Dale under the chin and he swore, realizing he’d landed on maybe fifty pounds of skinny kid.
“Quit!” he barked, and the squirming subsided. A nearby rustle told him the other boy hadn’t gone far, so he rolled off his captive. Sitting in the dirt, Dale shook his head. “What do you think you’re doing, looking in while a lady’s showering? Does your ma know about this?”
Blue eyes widened beneath tousled white-blond hair. Moonlight washed the kid to ghost-pale. “You’re not going to tell her, are you, mister? I swear we didn’t mean nothing by it. We climb up that old tree sometimes and peek in the window of the
haunted house. We didn’t think there was anyone in there, honest!”
“And the lights didn’t give you a clue?” Dale asked sternly, wondering when his boyhood home had gained a ghost.
The blond head shook vigorously. “It’s haunted. I told you. Sometimes there are lights in there but nobody’s home. We thought it was the ghosts, and I dared Eddie to go look and he dared me right back, and…” He trailed off and finally shrugged. “We thought the lady might be a ghost. Then she screamed and you came running… Hey, what’re you doing in there, anyway? That house belongs to my daddy’s cousin!”
Mickey.
Dale’s throat closed. Mick’s infrequent letters had mentioned his sons, but the boys hadn’t seemed real when Dale had been sitting in his cubbyhole office in Boston General, reading the piles of mail that gathered dust while he was on assignment. But this boy was so much more than words on a piece of paper. He was a little person who looked like Mickey.
At a second furtive rustle, Dale said, “You can come on out. I might not even tell your ma.”
The second boy, a smaller version of the first, crept from a shadowy beach plum and crouched at his brother’s side. “Sorry, mister. We didn’t mean to scare the lady. DJ thought she was a ghost.”
DJ. The elder of the two was named Dale John. Mickey had mentioned it in passing, but Dale hadn’t given it much thought.
Now, he sat stunned. He had family. How had he forgotten that? Or had he known it all along and not wanted to deal with the responsibilities that went with it? Trask had taught him that connections meant loss. Hurt. Anger.
Life in Boston was easier without all of those things.
A loud rustle and a series of thumps startled the boys, who squeaked in alarm and backpedaled on their skinny butts. A circle of yellow light slipped through the garden gate, followed by the shape of a woman.
“Dale?”
“Over here, Tans,” he called. “I caught your Peeping Toms.”
“Toms?” The flashlight beam bounced toward them. “As in, more than one?”
Dale stood and hauled the boys to their feet, feeling the adrenaline level out, leaving confusion behind. “Yeah. But they didn’t mean any harm. They thought you were a ghost.”
She’d changed into jeans and a hand-knit sweater like the one he was wearing. Dale felt the boys relax at his side when she flicked the beam of light to her own face. “Nope,” she said, “no ghost, though they did almost scare me to death.” She leaned down and offered a hand. “I’m Tansy.”
In the yellow light, the boys’ hair shone brighter, their eyes seemed bluer. The younger one shook Tansy’s hand. “I’m Eddie and my stomach feels funny.”
The older boy frowned. “I’m DJ, and don’t listen to him, his stomach always feels funny.” Then he
scuffed the dirt with his toe. “Sorry we scared you, lady. We didn’t think there was anyone in the house, honest. Don’t tell Ma, okay?”
Dale had often heard similar words from Mickey when they’d been caught committing some boyhood crime or another.
He swallowed. “Run on home now, boys. Miss Tansy and I have work to do.” His voice cracked but he didn’t care. “I’ll be by to talk to your pa later, but don’t worry. This’ll be our secret.”
When they were gone, Tansy clicked off the flashlight. They stood awkwardly in the darkness until she finally said the words he’d been dreading. “I thought you were a rich kid from Boston.”
He’d known it would hurt her to learn he was a fraud. He’d imagined how the disappointment would cross her face, and how she would rally quickly and try to pretend his past didn’t matter when they both knew it did. He’d known all that.
What he hadn’t known was how hard it would be to admit that it had all been a lie.
He sighed and tried to make the first cut a clean, lethal one. “That’s what you were supposed to think, Tansy. That’s what everyone thought.” When she didn’t answer, he took the flashlight, clicked it on and gestured back to the house. “Let’s go inside.”
But as they walked in silence, Dale realized he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t know what to say. They entered the kitchen and Tansy returned the flashlight to the box Libby had left.
After a moment, she turned to him. “Just tell me this, Dale. Who the hell are you?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. At Boston General, he knew who he was. On assignment, he knew. But on Lobster Island?
He had no idea.
THE SILENCE STRETCHED until Tansy began to doubt Dale was going to speak at all. Then she saw his eyes flickering the way they did when he was mentally flipping through diagnoses and treatment options. He was trying to choose an answer.
“Never mind.” She held up a hand to stop the lie. It would be one of many, she now realized, just as she now understood that the man she’d fallen in love with was nothing more than a figment of her imagination. Like mother, like daughter. Whitmore women fell for the schemers. She took a hurting breath that barely moved the stone-heavy pressure on her chest. “Tell me the truth or nothing, okay, Dale? You owe me that much.”
When he remained silent, she nodded and hid the disappointment down deep, alongside most of the memories of her father. “Fine. I’ll check the lab equipment and see what’s salvageable. You shower, and then we can head for the motel clinic. The sooner we solve this outbreak, the sooner we can get out of here.” The sooner she could request to be transferred away from Boston. Away from Dale.
She would not repeat her mother’s mistakes.
When he didn’t answer, she turned toward the salt-encrusted cases piled in the hallway.
“Tansy.” His quiet word brought her up short, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see his gleaming blue eyes. Didn’t want to remember how his features had been mirrored in the faces of those two boys out in the lane.
Didn’t want to think that she’d once imagined their sons looking just like that.
“It’s okay, Dale,” she finally said. “I can handle it.” She crouched down near the pile of equipment and waved at the stairs, hiding her face so he wouldn’t see the hurt. “Go shower. We need to see our patients.”
The job. Concentrate on the job. Medicine gave her control. Research told her the truth.
Dale didn’t.
He headed for the stairs, pulling the bulky sweater off over his head as he walked. He stopped near her in the narrow hallway, and Tansy was enveloped in familiar warmth. Only this time, it was laced with something new. Something hotter and harder than the pull she’d felt toward Dale Metcalf, playboy, or even Dr. Metcalf, field researcher.